Wolf Hunt (23 page)

"Margaritas are chick drinks."

"No they're not. Jimmy Buffett sings about
them."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But I'm going to
make it up to the victims for what happened."

"How? By bringing them back as zombies?"

"I don't know yet. Those kids who lost their
mother, maybe I'll pay for their college education."

"
What
? Are you brain
damaged?"

"What's wrong with doing that?"

"I know I said the term was offensive
earlier, but George, that's completely retarded. You're not going
to send those kids through college. What are you going to do, go
around offering financial support to everybody we've wronged?"

"Not everybody. Just the worst ones."

"Give me a frickin' break. You want to help
somebody you've wronged? Help me. Buy me a new shirt and pants. Get
me some goddamn Band-Aids."

"I will."

"Thank you."

"I'm being completely serious. I'm going to
start helping people. Sure, maybe I'll wake up in the morning and
decide that the college education idea is kind of stupid--"

"You will, I promise."

"--but I'm going to do whatever it takes to
clear my conscience. Maybe it won't be big things. Maybe it'll be a
bunch of little things. Maybe I'll...I don't know, entertain kids
or something. Dress up as a clown."

"Kids don't like clowns. Kids are scared of
them. You're going to terrorize the children you're trying to
entertain."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. I've never been more lost in a
conversation in my life."

"I just want to be a better person."

"We've established that. We've also
established that it's stupid."

"Becoming a better person is stupid?"

"Maybe the concept isn't, but the ideas
you're throwing out there are."

"Well, my brain isn't working at full
capacity right now, okay? Give me a break. You should be
encouraging me."

"Fine. Be a scary clown."

"I don't mean the clown thing. But if
I have a major life epiphany, a positive one, you shouldn't sit
there and make fun of it. I wouldn't do that to you."

"You make fun of me for ordering a diet soda!
Don't pretend that you're some self-improvement cheerleader. Our
relationship is based on blunt honesty, and my bluntly honest
opinion is that you're being an idiot. I'm not saying you shouldn't
be affected by what happened, but do I believe that you're going to
become Santa Claus? Hell no."

"I think you could stand to be more affected
by all of this."

"I'm compartmentalizing."

"Fine. We'll let the whole thing drop."

"Good idea."

"Are you sure you're not bleeding to
death?"

"As far as I know."

"How much further?"

They'd found a mustard-stained road map
underneath the back seat. Lou ran his finger along it. "A few more
blocks."

"I hope these guys know what they're doing.
What I really hope is that they let me pull the trigger when
they've got Ivan in their sights. That'd be sweet."

"Right. We've performed so well up to
this point, I'm sure they'll be more than happy to turn the
responsibility right back over to us, just to keep our high
self-esteem intact."

"I can fantasize, at least. God, I hate
Ivan."

George still wasn't one hundred
percent certain that they should be driving to the rendezvous
point. The idea that one of the professionals would say "Lost the
werewolf, huh? Time for you to die," and put a bullet in each of
their brains seemed like a legitimate concern. But ultimately, much
like the rhetorical question of pigeons crapping on your car versus
alligators eating your limbs, it came down to the certainty of a
life spent hiding from vengeful criminals versus the potential of
being executed for incompetence. If the reinforcements successfully
recaptured Ivan, it would be much better to be hanging out with
them at the time than to get the news from Ricky.

And, to be safe, they'd make sure the
reinforcements knew that George and Lou hadn't shared all of their
werewolf wisdom.

"I think it's this next one," said Lou,
pointing with a bloody finger.

Like Ricky had said, the address was
just a small parking lot. As soon as they turned in, a white van
with "Ray's Air Conditioning" on the side pulled out of one of the
spaces and drove forward. A man in a tan jumpsuit got out of the
passenger side and beckoned to them. George looked at Lou,
shrugged, and then pulled into the newly vacated space.

George shut off the engine. "Well, if we get
shot, I just want you to know that it's been a pleasure working
with you."

"If we get shot, I won't be able to say the
same."

They got out of the car. The man, who looked
about fifty and sported a brown handlebar mustache, whistled in
amazement. "The wolf did that to you?"

"Most of it, yeah," said George. "Some of
mine came from dogs."

"You should've been more cautious."

"Yeah, we figured that out once we started
bleeding all over the place. I'm George, and this is Lou."

"I've got a question for you, George."

"Sure."

"Do you think it's better use of our time to
get in the van and get moving, or to stand out here introducing
ourselves?"

What a dick.
"Fair enough. Let's go."

The man slid open the side door, revealing a
woman in a similar tan jumpsuit. She was in her thirties, had her
blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and would have been
extremely attractive if she didn't have such a sour expression. She
held a crossbow on her lap.

George nodded at her politely and they got in
the van. The man slid the door closed behind them, almost slamming
it shut on Lou's foot.

There were two rows of seats. Out of
consideration for Lou's more extensive injuries, George climbed
into the back seat. Lou sat down next to the woman, eyeing her
crossbow nervously. There was no room in this van for the cage even
if Ivan hadn't stole it; Ricky could just suck it.

The driver, who looked like
a college kid, turned around and gave them a salute that seemed
more than a little condescending.
Just stay
polite,
George told himself.
You need these people. It'll all be
okay.

The handlebar mustache guy got into the front
passenger seat. "Let's go."

"Yes, sir."

The van sped out of the parking lot fast
enough to make George momentarily lose his balance. He fastened the
seatbelt.

"
Now
is the appropriate time for
introductions," said the handlebar mustache guy. "I'm
Prescott."

"Angie," said the woman.

"Sam."

"Nice to meet you," said George. "Is it okay
that we're getting blood all over your van?"

Prescott shrugged. "It's had
worse."

"So you're the mighty werewolf hunters?"

"We hunt what needs to be hunted."

"But have you specifically hunted a werewolf
before?"

"What do you think?"

"I have no idea. That's why I asked."

Prescott gave him a look of pure contempt, as
if George were the stupidest human being ever to reside on the
planet. "Of course we haven't."

George snickered. "Ah. I get it. You
don't quite believe in what you're hunting yet. That's where we
were not too long ago. You'll learn."

"I'm sure we will. Why don't you start the
education process by answering some questions?"

"What do you want to know?"

"What are its capabilities?"

"Well, first of all, he's a human being who
can instantly change into a wolf-creature. That's a pretty big
capability."

"Please don't editorialize. Just the
facts."

Dick.
"Fact: my partner and I shot him several times, close range,
in the frickin' head, and it didn't kill him."

"Did it injure him?"

"Not a lot."

"But it did injure him?"

"He bled and reacted with pain, yes."

"What kind of bullets did you use?"

"Regular old lead bullets. I don't suppose
you guys have silver ones, do you?"

"No. They're not something you can get
quickly, even with our connections. Not a lot of call for silver
bullets in the real world. We'd have to make them ourselves. We've
got somebody on that, but it won't happen today."

"Well, that sucks."

"Are there any other weaknesses we should
know about?"

"Possibly."

Angie, who had been glaring at him the entire
time, tightened her grip on the crossbow. "I'd hate to think that
you were trying to withhold information to make yourselves
indispensable." Her voice sounded like she'd been a chain smoker
her entire life. No, worse than that, it sounded like she
extinguished cigarettes on the back of her throat.

"Would I do something like that?"

"For your sake, I hope not."

"Relax," said Prescott. "We wouldn't take you
out even if we wanted to."

"Good to know."

"After all, we may need bait."

Serving as bait didn't sound like much fun,
but George would take it over an execution any day. Prescott looked
as if he really wanted to watch George cringe at that idea, so
George made sure to maintain a casual front. "Sounds fine. Happy to
help."

"What are his other weaknesses?"

"Pretty much just silver, as far as we can
see. And he's an arrogant son of a bitch. Now can I ask you a
question?"

"Shoot."

"How exactly are you going to catch him?
Because all I can think of is to follow a trail of corpses."

"We're quite a bit more sophisticated than
that." Prescott pulled what George had thought was a GPS from its
mounting on the dashboard. "Ivan Spinner had a chip implanted into
his arm while he was in custody. We know exactly where he is."

"Holy crap! Really?"

"Really."

"That's fantastic! That's the best news I've
heard all day. I mean, sure, pretty much all of the news I've heard
today has sucked shit, but still, that's great news! Did you hear
that, Lou?"

"Where is he?" Lou asked.

"You're on a need-to-know basis."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like you very much and don't
feel like sharing."

"Can we at least have some weapons?" George
asked.

"Bait doesn't need weapons."

"So are you catching him or killing him?"

"As of right now, the plan is still to
capture him. If that changes, you'll know by the dead werewolf at
your feet."

"Will he be tortured after we get him?"

"That's not for us to decide."

"If I get a vote, I hope he is. One
last question: if you guys are so fantastic, why didn't they have
you do this job in the first place? Why hire us?"

"Because we're expensive as hell."

"Are you worth it?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Trackers

"He hasn't moved for the past few minutes,"
said Prescott. "He's probably resting, licking his wounds."

Or he's
dead
, thought George. Now that they had the
professionals on their side, the thought of Ivan's death wasn't as
appealing. Much better to get him tranquilized, back in custody,
and over to Dewey where he belonged.

"He heals quick," said George.

"Did he expel the bullets?"

George shook his head. "Nah, not that I saw.
As far as I know, he still has a bunch of bullets rattling around
in his skull and ribcage. How do you think he gets them out?"

"Hopefully through an extremely painful
process of manual extraction. But his body may just reject them and
squeeze them out like a splinter."

George had an amusing mental image of bullets
popping out of Ivan's head like zits. Then he had an even more
amusing image of Ivan's entire head popping like a zit. Actually,
any mental image that involved harm coming to the werewolf provided
George with at least a small level of entertainment.

"How's it going?" he asked Lou.

Lou held up another one of the bloody
antiseptic wipes for George's inspection. He'd made a pile of about
a dozen of them now. Lou was clearly doing his best not to wince
and show weakness while he disinfected his wounds, but his jaw was
clenched tight and it was definitely not a pleasant process.

"You'll need to get bandaged up quickly,"
Angie told him. "Looks like we're almost there." She didn't offer
to help.

Lou ripped open the front of the left
leg of his pants. He unwrapped a large bandage and pressed it
against a six-inch-long cut that ran lengthwise above his
knee.

"So what's the big elaborate plan?" George
asked as Sam took an exit off the highway that promised gas, food,
and camping.

"It's not elaborate," said Prescott.
"We will park a safe distance from where he's resting, and either
you or your partner will walk out there and make your presence
known. The way your partner looks right now, I think it should be
you."

"Agreed," George said.

"When the target shows himself, we'll get the
net on him. Problem solved."

"How exactly does that work?" George asked.
"Are you setting the net up beforehand?"

"No, George," said Prescott, once again
making no effort to conceal his disgust. "We have a net gun. An
expensive one. Believe it or not, it's much more effective than
tossing a blanket over an animal's head."

"How'd you know about that?"

"You're famous."

"Just so you know, the blanket did have a few
silver rings sewn into it."